


New Unhallowed Ground

by obstinatrix



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassia, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 23:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10887171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: Cardassia, after the war.





	New Unhallowed Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Completely and utterly plotless and pointless curtainfic porn.

Garak's eyes are heavy-lidded, his chest full with the vision Julian makes between his knees like this, the curve of Garak's hand on that soft face like antique pewter on bronze. He has always thought the doctor beautiful -- that was the draw of it, that first day in the replimat; if the complexities of his mind had reeled Garak further in, it would always be that face, nevertheless, that had begun it all -- but like this, he is so assuredly no longer _Starfleet_ that it stops Garak's breath. The fine dark hair is shaggy, curling over his ears and nape, and a neat black beard covers the lower part of his face, neither Starfleet regulation nor anything one might expect to see on Cardassia. Like this, with his face upturned and the mutable eyes beseeching and green, Julian Bashir is entirely Garak's. Garak can imagine no finer achievement, no purer satisfaction.

"Sweetheart..." He pushes a hand into Julian's hair, and Julian leans into it, lets his head be pulled back to expose a greater length of brown throat. Garak wants to worry at the fine skin with his teeth, but satisfies himself with bringing his free hand up to cup the vulnerable length of it, palm against the fragile larynx. Julian's unadorned neck has always been a source of fascination to him: the way it shifts with every breath, and the changeable motions of the cords in his throat when he swallows, often caught Garak's attention during their early lunches together. Years later, it still compels him. When Julian is spread wide beneath him in their bed, Garak's hand might drift to cup that throat and feel it trembling with Julian's gasps as Garak fucks him, the thrumming vibrations of Julian's cries palpable against Garak's palm. Now, Garak satisfies himself with gripping lightly, carefully, and watches the way Julian's smoked-glass eyes flutter closed, the lashes settling long on his cheeks.

"Please," Julian says, low. There's a nick, Garak registers, at the juncture of Julian's neck and shoulder. It's nothing serious -- a papercut, Julian would say -- but on the station, Garak knows, Julian would have healed the thing without thinking, within moments of noticing it. Not now. On this shattered shell that was Cardassia, there is too much to think about to bother with papercuts: Julian has been taken up with setting broken limbs and stabilising orphans, euthanising lost causes and replacing bodyparts lost to the wars. On a good day, he is fortunate enough to deliver a child. Garak himself is taken up at the ministry with flinging himself in front of the slow slide into chaos, trying to rebuild, and it is -- it _is_ working, between the lot of them. Cardassians _are_ strong; Julian was right about that. But the nick at the base of Julian's neck is a reminder that nothing will ever be the same, and Garak loves Julian all the more for it, knowing he could have left Garak to it -- could have kept his post on Deep Space Nine as if nothing had changed; as if the world had not spun itself upside down beneath Cardassia's feet. Julian goes where he is needed, and Garak needs him desperately. The fact that he is here seems continually miraculous.

“Please, Garak,” Julian murmurs, pressing his cheek to Garak’s thigh. His breath is human-hot and Garak shifts at the touch of it, feeling the warmth sinking into his thigh-muscles where Julian’s hands have wrapped around them. Julian suffers on Cardassia, Garak knows: his ancestors may have once been desert-wanderers, but that is hardly helpful in Cardassia’s humid climate. Still, he is becoming accustomed to it, and Garak cannot help but shamefully enjoy the clean, solid heat of him, the way his skin burns with it. Holding Julian warms Garak right down to his bones. 

But at this moment, Julian does not wish to be held. “What are you pleading for, my ambiguous dear?” Garak lets his hand slide from Julian’s throat to his jaw, rubbing at the soft dark hair there, so compellingly alien. “Dinner’s on the stove, if you’re hungry?” 

Julian rolls his eyes, grey-green now. “Not hungry for _that_ , you arse.” 

Garak laughs aloud, and then catches his breath when Julian turns his face and presses his cheek to the place where Garak’s cock is tenting the loose trousers, half-emerged from the protection of his purse. The face, like the hands, is blood-warm and almost wet with heat, singing along Garak’s every nerve. When Julian presses closer, nuzzling, Garak’s hands jolt up into Julian’s hair almost of their own volition, tugging. 

“If this is what you want in your mouth,” he manages, “then I do believe you’ve omitted some _vital_ steps.” 

“Not omitted,” Julian assures him, fumbling at the flies of Garak’s trousers, “merely delayed until relevant. See?” One long brown hand delves inside Garak’s opened pants and draws out his cock, and, _heavens_ , the look on Julian’s face ought to be illegal, the smug upward curve of that generous mouth as he presses Garak’s slick bare cock to his cheek. 

“You’re going to make a mess of your beard,” Garak parries. “I know how you hate having to shampoo it out.” 

“Oh, I think it’s a trial I’m willing to endure. Especially since I can usually count on some assistance.” 

Julian’s eyebrows quirk as he opens his mouth, dipping his head until the crown of Garak’s cock rubs slickly along the soft inside of his lower lip. Julian’s eyelashes flicker. From this angle, his eyes look almost violet: ridiculous. After all Garak has been through, that this human youth should be the death of him, with his warm wide mouth and his ludicrous long-lashed gaze. 

“Oh --” Words present themselves for Garak’s approval, but nothing quite seems worthy of being spoken. Not when Julian is looking at him _that_ way, smug at first, and then, as he swallows Garak’s cock into his throat, the smugness falling away entirely. Julian has never been capable of dissembling, and like this, Garak knows that the look on his face is untempered and true. His mouth is stretched wide, eyes soft, and Garak fancies he can see the press of his own cock in that vulnerable throat as Julian swallows him down, all in one motion, committed to this as he is to everything. 

“Julian…” He cards his hands through the soft dark hair and is rewarded by an upward flick of Julian’s eyes, pupils wide enough to swallow the irises almost entirely. Julian’s tongue presses against the underside of Garak’s cock, and Garak luxuriates a moment in the tight hot clutch of Julian’s throat all around him, until Julian inhales sharply through his nose and pulls back, far enough that Garak’s tip just barely rests between his lips. 

After all these years, Garak can read Julian’s words in his face almost as well as if he had spoken them aloud. _Is this what you want?_ says the quirk of Julian’s eyebrow, as he mouths at the head of Garak’s cock, rubbing his tongue around the sensitive head. _Am I everything you need? Am I your perfect boy?_

Well. Perhaps some of what Garak hears in these moments is born of his own mind: Julian is very insistent that he isn’t a _boy_. But he _is_ perfect, and Garak bites his lip and tugs and lets himself revel in the warmth of that mouth when Julian takes him in once more, sucking, his fingers digging bruise-hard into Garak’s thighs and thumbing expertly over the ridges there. 

“Oh, my Julian,” Garak breathes, “oh my dear --” 

Julian hums in his throat, _come for me_ , and Garak does, the pull rising up in the pit of his stomach as he feels himself spend into Julian’s throat. Julian groans around him, a dark hot sound that reverberates into the base of Garak’s spine, and when Julian finally pulls away, the wide mouth is smiling as Julian wipes at it with the back of one slender hand. 

“Is that better?” Garak can hear the gravel in his own voice: he’s breathless. “Is that what you wanted?” 

“To begin with,” Julian says, smirking. A moment later, he’s clambering up onto the bed, and Garak lets himself be borne down onto his back so that Julian can curl up into the crook of his arm, his face pressed to Garak’s broad chest, cheek on Garak’s collarbone. 

“Oh yes?” Julian is fiercely hard, Garak can tell already: humans leave so little to the imagination. He cups the erection in his hand, and feels Julian shudder gratifyingly. 

“ _To begin with_ ,” Julian repeats, and presses himself shameless as a youth into Garak’s hand, the fabric of his trousers damp where his cockhead has leaked desire there. 

Garak smiles and kisses the fine skin where Julian’s eyelid crinkles into his temple, soft as butter. He slips one hand under the waistband of Julian’s trousers and feels the bare heat of his cock, even now _impossibly_ smooth. He squeezes, running a thumbtip under Julian’s soft foreskin, and feels him groan. “Every day with you, my love,” Garak says, “is a new beginning.”


End file.
